Chapter 9: A Weekend at Home (5)

The apartment felt like a cage as the afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting long, lazy shadows across the room. Chameli sat at the small wooden desk in her bedroom, her schoolbooks spread out in front of her. The words on the pages blurred as her mind wandered, unable to focus on the equations and essays that once felt like an escape. She tapped her pencil against the desk, the rhythmic clicking echoing in the silence.

She glanced at her phone, half-hoping for a message from Priya or even her father, but the screen remained dark. The stillness of the apartment was suffocating, broken only by the occasional honk of a car or the distant chatter of neighbors. She stood up abruptly, pushing her chair back with a scrape, and walked to the window. Outside, the world moved on—children played in the street, vendors called out their wares, and life buzzed with a normalcy that felt alien to her now.

"Why can't we just be like them?" she muttered to herself, her breath fogging the glass. She traced a finger along the pane, drawing a small heart before wiping it away with a sigh.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge to find it nearly empty. A half-rotten tomato, a few wilted spinach leaves, and a container of leftover rice stared back at her. She slammed the door shut, frustration bubbling up inside her.

"What am I even doing?" she said aloud, her voice echoing in the empty apartment. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The silence pressed in on her, heavy and unrelenting.

To distract herself, she turned on the small television in the living room. The news was on, and the anchor's voice filled the room with reports of a recent crackdown on illegal businesses in the city. Chameli's stomach churned as the camera panned to a group of men in handcuffs, their faces blurred but their defiance palpable. She thought of her father, of the whispers she'd overheard about his dealings with loansharks.

"Turn it off," she whispered to herself, but her hand hesitated on the remote. The anchor began detailing the rise of human trafficking in the region, and Chameli felt a cold knot of fear tighten in her chest. She quickly changed the channel, landing on an old Bollywood movie. The vibrant colors and melodramatic music were a welcome distraction, and she sank onto the couch, pulling a threadbare blanket over her legs.

The movie was one she'd seen a dozen times before—a tale of love and sacrifice, where the heroine defied all odds to save her family. Chameli scoffed at the unrealistic plot, but she couldn't look away. There was something comforting about the predictability of it all, the way the story always ended with hope and redemption.

As the movie played, her thoughts drifted back to her father. Where was he now? Was he safe? She imagined him sitting in some dimly lit office, surrounded by men with cold eyes and colder hearts. She thought of the way his hands had trembled at dinner the night before, the way his voice had cracked when he told her everything would be fine.

"It's not fine," she whispered, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. She felt a surge of anger—not at her father, but at the world that had brought them to this point. She wanted to scream, to break something, to do anything that would make the ache in her chest go away.

But instead, she sat there, the movie playing in the background, as the afternoon sunlight faded into dusk. The apartment grew darker, the shadows stretching longer, and Chameli felt the weight of the day settle over her like a heavy blanket. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of the movie wash over her, and for a moment, she allowed herself to pretend that everything was okay.